


Careless Talk (Costs Lives)

by elzed



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003) RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-15
Updated: 2009-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:34:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25378492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elzed/pseuds/elzed
Summary: Possibly my favourite of my old straight-to-the-special-hell BSG RPF stories. A bit more than PWP this time. Imported from DW/LJ, first posted 2009. Angst ahoy.
Relationships: Jamie Bamber/Katee Sackhoff; (and some Jamie/Kerry...).





	Careless Talk (Costs Lives)

**Author's Note:**

> Possibly my favourite of my old straight-to-the-special-hell BSG RPF stories. A bit more than PWP this time. Imported from DW/LJ, first posted 2009. Angst ahoy.

Inspired by a picture and an interview in the February edition of _Glamour_ UK. All quotes from the actual interview... And yes, I am exceedingly late to that party, sorry!

Thanks to the admirable and much-missed [](http://overnighter.livejournal.com/profile)[**overnighter**](http://overnighter.livejournal.com/) for beta-ing this, and tamping down all her editorial reflexes when faced with UK spelling and idioms; and to the lovely [](http://stars-like-dust.livejournal.com/profile)[**stars_like_dust**](http://stars-like-dust.livejournal.com/) for cheerleading and advice.

It doesn’t take Jamie long to figure he’s in trouble – all that’s needed is Kerry’s supercilious look from the kitchen table where she’s looking at his latest batch of cuttings. A couple of magazines in the lot, he notices, and then he sees the photo she’s perusing – black and white, and even upside down he looks like some sort of debauched model.

Ah yes. _That_ shoot.

He remembers a jokey, not-too-long interview with a young woman with a short skirt and black tights who kept crossing and recrossing her legs, giggling and asking him personal questions. It was flirty and fun and maybe he got a little too much into the spirit of it.

“Hey babes – how was your day?” he ventures, as he walks up to her to drop a kiss on her forehead. “Did the bunnies go to bed ok?”

Kerry sighs. “They were good, ate their tea, in bed by seven thirty. And my day was fine. Until now.”

“Well, thank you,” he mocks. “Should I leave?”

She rolls her eyes.

“Have you _seen_ this interview you gave to _Glamour_ , Jamie? Have you _read_ it?”

“Well, no, obviously – but it can’t be that bad.”

Wordlessly she pushes the glossy his way, open at the page with his Sebastian Flyte impression, and Jamie turns it right side up to read the copy. It’s very short, and he keeps getting distracted by his crotch – which is pretty much the centre of the picture – but he still cringes all the way through it.

“Did you even _know_ you were giving an interview?”

“Oh, come on, it’s not like this is… Have you seen what the other guys say?” he tries, leafing through the rest of the article, which purports to interview four of the hottest men on British TV. The tag amuses him briefly, except he doesn’t know much about the others, which depresses him a little.

“This isn’t about the other guys.”

“I mean, it’s a glossy girl mag. She wanted something fun for Valentine’s Day…” he trails off, because his wife is most certainly not looking amused.

“Well, she got that. It’s all tits and arse and lusting after your costars. Very mature.”

Oh, fuck, the Katee thing again. Why he couldn’t have kept his trap shut after going on about his bum, he doesn’t know. That was stupid enough, but there are places Jamie really doesn’t want to go again, wounds finally healed that won’t bear reopening.

“As a valentine, it’s hard to beat,” Kerry adds, bitter. “Good thing there’s a month to go.”

“Kerry, please… I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Yeah. But I do,” she says with a sigh, and walks out of the kitchen, leaving him alone with his decadent portrait and a mind loaded with guilt and shame. He half-stands as if to follow her, but she’s putting her coat on and heading for the door.

“You can babysit for a change,” is all she says before he hears the door slam shut.

The worst thing is, he knew at the time he was sailing close to the wind, but he was talking about acting, and transference, and keeping it anchored in reality, and the interviewer was really keen, and…

He drops his head into his hands and stares at the scarred surface of the table, inherited from his grandmother’s old kitchen, solid enough to survive whatever battering three kids can inflict on it, barely a challenge after all his brothers tried their best. He hopes his marriage can bear half as much abuse.

**********************************

_December 2004_

“Hey, Bamber, what’s your poison?” Katee’s voice cuts through the hubbub of the bar, and Jamie has to make his mind up – quick – although he suspects she probably won’t take any account of his request.

“Beer?” he calls out, hopeful, but when she comes back to the table she has a bottle of tequila and a tray of shot glasses, with cut-up limes and salt in a saucer.

“They were out of beer,” she says with an apologetic grimace that collapses into laughter at Tahmoh’s reaction.

“Sackhoff, stop slandering Canadian bars to cover for your alcoholic tendencies. And pass the booze.”

Tricia does the honours, filling glasses to the brim and passing around salt and lime, Grace counts them down – five, four, three, two, one – and Jamie licks the salt, necks the tequila and bites into the lime, trying not to pucker his mouth too obviously. The whole ritual reminds him of student discos, except that then it was limp slices of lemon rather than quarters of lime, and much nastier tequila.

Four shots later the bottle is empty and they’re all drunk enough that Tahmoh’s suggestion that they continue the partying at his – no beer shortage there, apparently – sounds like a great idea.

Jamie’s cutting lemons in the kitchen – beer’s better when it’s a chaser, says Tahmoh, and thank heavens they’re off tomorrow because the hangover is going to be murder – when Katee lurches in and promptly spills her drink on him, ice cubes and all, and he drops the knife to the floor, missing her foot by a whisker.

“Christ, Katee, are you okay?”

“Oh, I am so sorry!” she cries out, ignoring the near miss. She’s flushed, her hair’s mussed and she looks far more adorable than he ought to notice.

“No biggie,” he says, wiping himself off with a tea towel. “Maybe you should skip this round, though. You’re not quite up to Starbuck levels.”

“Oh, like I’m going to take lessons from a limey,” she snorts.

“Sorry to break it to you, babes, but we Brits drink you Yanks under the table. And I used to be on the rugby team, which is like marathon training for pissheads.”

“So what, are you saying you’re sober, Bamber?” she slurs, batting her eyelids at him. “’Cause I don’t believe you for a second.”

“Soberer than you.”

“Pfff. I can knock’em back as fast as you can make’em.”

“Katee… “

She knocks his arm aside, reaches for the vodka bottle on the counter and pours herself a generous slug.

“Got any more ice? Lemon?”

He backs off, because he knows better than to get involved in a drunken argument at this stage, but she makes such a face when she finally downs her hastily-mixed drink that he breaks out laughing and plucks the empty tumbler from her fingers.

“C’mon, let’s go have a breath of fresh air.”

“Or a cigarette.”

“Your funeral...”

They make it through the living room where Grace and Tricia are sprawled on the couches while Tahmoh tries to juggle four oranges and fails, spectacularly, and then they are on the narrow balcony and Katee lights her fag, inhales deeply, and starts coughing.

“Told you they were no good for you.”

“Oh, shut up and stop being such a good boy,” she shoots back when she’s caught her breath, leaning against the railing. Her breasts are threatening to spill from her scoop-necked top in that position, and Jamie can’t tear his eyes away from them. _Good boy my arse,_ he thinks. _If you could see what I am thinking..._

He’s not as discreet as he thinks he is, clearly, because when he looks back up at her face she’s sporting a wolfish grin.

“Distracted?” she says, and he can feel his face blushing.

They’re inches from each other, her lips are slightly parted and he can tell a come on when he sees one. There’s a million reasons why this is a terrible idea – but despite all his talk of holding his booze, Jamie has always been susceptible to the inhibition-lowering effects of alcohol. Especially when confronted with a woman who’s been figuring with alarming frequency in his fantasies.

He leans over and brushes his mouth against hers. It’s tentative, and a little clumsy, but it must be effective – as far as he can tell – because she sighs and opens her mouth further and suddenly they’re kissing.

She tastes of fruity lip gloss and tobacco and alcohol with a hint of citrus, but more than anything she tastes different. The difference is exciting, and guilt twists in his gut like a knife. He slips a hand around her waist nevertheless, pulls her closer until her breasts are mashed against his chest and he is surrounded with the feel and scent of her. Bliss. Guilt-ridden, bad, wrong, delicious, sexually arousing bliss.

He has no idea how long they snog on the balcony – not long enough to even begin to offload the accumulated tension of months of filming their ambiguous Apollo/Starbuck flirtation together; definitely not long enough to dampen the growing urge he’s been fighting all that time; hopefully not long enough for the other three inside to realise what’s happening – but when they pull away from each other she looks a little shell-shocked.

“I…” he says, licking his lips, and he honestly doesn’t know what to say, except that he can’t do this, it’s wrong, even if he wants more and his cock is straining against his jeans like he actually is the teenage student he’s been impersonating all night.

Katee blinks rapidly a few times and takes a deep breath.

“We shouldn’t stay here like this,” she whispers, her voice shaky, and Jamie takes his cue and walks back through the French windows, plastering a grin on his face, and hoping the others are drunk enough not to notice how fake it looks.

Luckily, Tahmoh has been hogging the limelight with his inept juggling, and the girls are laughing too much for anything to register. Jamie leans over Grace and steals a couple of potato chips from the bowl she’s cradling in her arms.

“I should hit the road, guys. I’m beat. Thanks for the drinks, Tahmoh, it was fun.”

His jacket’s by the door, so he just waves goodbye and dials a cab on his way down. He’d rather wait outside for a while than go back to the balcony, where Katee is probably smoking end to end fags. His lips are still tingling and the enormity of what just happened is dawning on him as the car pulls alongside and he climbs in.

All the way home his mind is suffused with thoughts of betrayal, Kerry’s reproachful face – Christ, what was he _thinking_? – and, above all, his three baby daughters, most precious, unsullied, and definitely much, much more than a rat like him deserves. Thank God they weren’t alone, and it couldn’t go any further. Thank God, because if they had been, he knows he wouldn’t have stopped there.

**************************************

_January 2009_

Jamie’s made himself a cup of tea – resisting the temptation to hit the single malt – although as he keeps rereading a couple of the sentences in the article, he’s not sure how long that’s going to last. He can’t believe he was that candid, that stupid. He can’t imagine, either, what it must have felt like for Kerry to read them.

_“[Being an actor] is great fun, because part of the job is to create sexual tension with someone on screen. But it’s dangerous too, because you can find yourself in situations when art and life start to blend and you have to remember it’s not real.”_

The weird thing is, when he first met Katee, he didn’t fancy her. He’s not sure why – perhaps because they hit it off from the word go, and there was such a friendly vibe on set; or because they were both working their arses off to make the grade next to Eddie and Mary. More likely it was just that he was head over heels in love with Kerry, missing her like crazy and spending every waking moment hoping that he’d make it home before she gave birth.

Falling in lust on set is such a fucking cliché, he didn’t think it was going to happen to him. Apart from the fact that he’d met Kerry on a set, of course. And that he had completely underestimated the intensity of a relationship on a TV series, where you shoot scene after scene, episode after episode, week after week, developing chemistry and building sexual tension that becomes less acting and more feeling as time goes by.

Remembering what’s real becomes a nightmare. It’s _all_ real. It’s not right, but it’s fucking _real._

****************************************

_July 2006_

He can’t get his head round the whole convention thing. It never occurred to Jamie that his job might one day lead him to these massive sci-fi fairs where he rubs shoulders with up-and-comers and has-beens; friendly fans and borderline stalkers; and more freaks and geeks than he can shake a stick at. It’s weird to be a commodity – they’re slick commercial organisations, these gatherings – that leave him under no illusion that he’s anything else as he watches the people line up to have their picture taken with him, or with Tricia or Katee (actually, a lot more people line up for Tricia and Katee, but considering the gender ratio at these events, he’s not surprised).

It’s a buzz, though, and he gives in readily to the crowd worship – more often than not, the fans are engaging and keen to argue subtle points of plot and character – and a Q&A session he does with Katee and Tahmoh proves to be entertaining, challenging and ego-boosting, all in one.

The trouble comes later, when the fans have moved onto parties which Jamie has declined to attend. Instead, he’s holed up in Grace’s bedroom with Tahmoh, Katee and James, and they’re drinking whiskey out of plastic glasses while James takes the piss out of Tahmoh, who was beset by a couple of eager and rather forward fans on his way out of a round table discussion.

“I saw the blonde stuff her phone number into your pocket, you know,” James says, and Tahmoh rolls his eyes, but there’s a faint blush creeping up his neck.

“So what’s the deal?” Jamie asks. “You planning to meet them later for an afterparty?”

“Will you two just fuck off?”

“Methinks the man doth protest too much,” Jamie says, and Katee grins before giving Tahmoh a speculative glance.

“Have you ever?” she asks.

“What? Fans? No!” he says, too fast, and she splutters into her tumbler.

“You so have, Penikett, and you should know by now you’re a shitty liar.”

“Tahmoh!” Grace says, clapping her hands. “You never told me. I thought we were friends…”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, it was a long time ago. Before I met you guys.”

“You had fans _before_ you met us?” James quips, and everyone starts laughing, Tahmoh included.

Katee’s gaze has shifted to Jamie now, and he’s very aware of it. He’s even more aware of the fact that they have rooms next to each other one floor down, and it’s not entirely by chance. The last few months have ratcheted up the tension between them to an almost unbearable degree, to the extent that he finds doing any kind of love scene with her fucking embarrassing. He keeps getting a hard-on. Thank god the writers have decided to mess with Apollo and Starbuck, otherwise he might very well be making a complete tit of himself on camera every week.

And, of course, there have been a few more occasions for discreet drunken snogs and the odd grope. Nothing more. Yet. Oh, it’s been close enough, but they’ve both been careful, and he always remembers that he’s married before the temptation becomes too great. Or Katee reminds him, because she’s good at the guilt, too.

But tonight – tonight there’s whisky and friends and the adoration of the fans – and it feels like they’re not in a real place, this hotel full of actors and directors, sci-fi geeks and show fans, thia crazy schedule of panels, photo ops and autograph sessions. The buzz is really getting to him. To both of them, because her eyes are shining and there’s dirty promise in her smile, and when they finally leave Grace’s room to go and crash out, he’s pretty damn sure he won’t be ending the night in his bed.

They part from Tahmoh and James at the lift, and James wags his finger in mock admonition – “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” – which makes them all giggle, but when the doors close he daren’t look at Katee. They walk side by side, not touching, until they get to her room, 506, just next to his, and when she slips the keycard in and opens the door he follows her silently inside, with a quick glance around to check no one’s caught them.

There’s no need for words then, just her arms around his neck and her mouth on his, and Jamie knows without the shadow of a doubt that he’s not going to stop tonight when she presses herself against him and the blood rushes to his cock, blessedly cutting off his conscience from the loop.

He’s drunk enough that he worries briefly whether he’ll be able to perform, turned on enough that his concern disappears once she’s on her knees at his feet, fingers nimble at his zipper while he stands stock still. Her first touch is cold – an evening of nursing ice-filled tumblers – and he starts; she laughs quietly and replaces her hand with her mouth, her tongue wet and warm and impossibly lascivious on his erection, and he lets out a slow breath.

When he pulls her back up to kiss her, she nips at his bottom lip and whispers something into his mouth.

“What?” he murmurs while his hands roam around her waist, finding their way past the waistband of her skirt, caressing the curve of her back – lower – and she smiles against him.

“I said – do you know how long I’ve been waiting to taste you?” she says and then bites her lip, as if shocked at her own audacity. Jamie feels himself growing harder than steel.

“Jesus, Katee, are you talking dirty to me?”

She’s giggling now and shakes her head when he tries to kiss her again.

“Wait!” she squeals, and he doesn’t want to, so he manoeuvres her towards the bed and topples her onto her back, kissing her neck while her pulls down her skirt and knickers with an ease that almost surprises him as he eases them past her open-toed red stilettos.

Now Katee’s lying on the bed looking like a pornographic dream. She’s naked from the waist down but for her shoes, nipples erect through the thin fabric of her spaghetti-strap top, mouth half-open. There’s a blush on her cheeks which is part-arousal and likely part-embarrassment, knowing her. She brings her knees together in a burst of modesty, then – provocatively – lets them fall apart for his benefit until he can see exactly how turned on she is, her flesh pink and swollen and glistening under his gaze.

Neither of them moves for what feels like an eternity, punctuated by his thudding heart.

“You think _you’ve_ been waiting a long time?” Jamie asks, his voice hoarse, and when Katie moans in answer, breaking the spell, he falls to his knees and claims her with his mouth.

It all spirals into crazy drunken lust after that, a succession of delirious and ecstatic moments: Katee coming under his tongue, legs clamped around his head, sobbing his name; Katee stripping her remaining clothes off for him – Christ, her breasts – but keeping her pornographic heels on before straddling him and popping every last button on his shirt; the feel of her cunt tight and wet around him as he thrusts into her; the belated interruption and giggling fumble for a condom; sharing a crafty illicit fag on her bed – after the act – a half-full glass of water as makeshift ashtray; her insatiable mouth inching its way down his body again, later, and teasing him back to a peak of arousal before swallowing every last drop of his come; more than anything Katee’s ability to have orgasm after orgasm until his fingers and mouth and cock surrender…

The next morning, as he comes out of the shower in his room, Kerry calls and he swears to himself he’s never doing it again.

Even as he thinks it he knows it’s a lie.

*************************

_January 2009_

_“You work out very quickly that if the relationship at work were to go any further, you would be losing what matters to you most. The person you don’t know is very exciting but the person you do know is part of who you are.”_

He reads and rereads that sentence, and wishes he were as cool and composed as the pretend version of him who gave the interview, because that’s one lesson he learnt the hard way, and only when he almost lost what mattered to him most.

His mug is empty next to him on the table, and he debates whether to make another cuppa and then sends his best intentions to hell, wanders into the living room in search of the Laphroaig, and pours himself a large one. Fuck tea.

He sips the whisky slowly, reminiscing, submitting his every memory of Katee to his inner guilt-ridden inquisitor, until suddenly it occurs to him that he hasn’t seen his daughters since this morning, and a pang of need propels him out of his chair and up the stairs.

The girls’ bedroom door is ajar – exactly how wide is a subject of debate between the three of them every night – and he hears Isla’s stuffy breathing from the corridor; another winter cold that just won’t go away and which is bound to move on to her sisters next. She lies still on her back, blonde hair all over the pillow, and he’s transfixed by the curve of her cheek, her rosebud mouth half open, the dark eyelashes curling against her skin, the captivating charm of his own flesh and blood, asleep.

From across the room, he hears a noise as Ava rolls over and buries her face into the mass of teddies that fight for space on her mattress. Jamie holds his breath, wary of disturbing her, even if – in those early hours of sleep – it would take an earthquake to awaken any of them. He can’t be too careful.

Darcy’s duvet has fallen to the floor and she’s perilously close to following it, one leg dangling over the edge of her small bed, and again Jamie marvels at how mobile they still are, even in their sleep. He tucks each of his darlings in, kisses three downy cheeks, and then just stands there in the middle of their bedroom, breathing in slowly, happy.

Until the guilt hits again and with it, the terror of losing them.

**********************************

_September 2006_

“So,” Kerry says brightly as he stops at a red light, “what was that all about in the kitchen with Katee?”

Jamie forces himself not to look at her, not to twitch, even though his heart is suddenly pounding. Fuck.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, Jamie, you tell me. You two looked…” she trails off and he thanks God the light’s turned green and he can legitimately focus on the road and not his wife.

“Forget it,” she says, finally, after they’ve been driving for a good three or four minutes, and Jamie’s been using all his mental tricks to stop himself from asking her what the fuck she’s talking about, because he realises he’s not supposed to care, because it’s supposed to be paranoid bullshit.

Ironically, of course, it _is_ more or less bullshit now, because since that three-day convention in Atlanta, since those three nights of no-holds-barred surrender to their mutual obsession, Katee and he haven’t even kissed again.

But there’s no denying that something’s changed between the two of them and he’s not quite sure how Kerry cottoned on, but she’s definitely felt something, which is scaring the shit out of him.

He forces himself to relax on the rest of the drive home, which passes in what he assumes is companionable silence, until they pull over in front of the house and he turns the engine off.

“Have you two been having an affair?” Kerry asks just as he’s about to open the door, and the bottom falls out of his world.

“What the fuck? No! What are you on about?”

He feels oddly detached – a panic reaction, he thinks, because he can feel his heart hammering in his chest, and every breath he takes is a triumph of willpower over quaking flesh. _This can’t be happening_ runs like a mantra through his brain, a reminder of those few months he tried transcendental meditation on the advice of a hippy-dippy girlfriend before giving it up as a load of bollocks.

“Jamie, I’m not stupid. I’ve seen how you two spark off each other. I know you fancy her. She certainly fancies you. Besides, you have a bit of a track record of falling for your leading lady.”

“Kerry, come on, that’s not fair.”

“Not fair? Look me in the eye, Jamie, and tell me there’s nothing happening between the two of you. No, really, look at me.”

He steels himself, because he’s an actor and he can do this, for the sake of his family, of his wife, of his kids – for the sake of his own cowardly weasel self – and looks her straight in the eye, unwavering.

“There isn’t anything happening between me and Katee and you are being paranoid,” he says.

“Swear it on the heads of your children?” she retorts, and of course he hesitates, because the last thing he wants to do is tempt fate, and her face crumples.

“You fucking bastard. You fucking evil cheating bastard son of a bitch. You… Jesus, Jamie, you cunt. I can’t believe you actually slept with her.”

Her voice is curiously flat, devoid of passion, as if the fact that her suspicions have been confirmed had robbed her of all the anger and jealousy she is more than entitled to feel, and Jamie wants to throw up.

“I…” he tries, but she just raises her hand.

“Shut up. Just tell me, how long has this been going on?”

“It’s not what…”

“What, you haven’t slept with her?”

“Kerry, can we go inside and talk about this? Please?”

She looks beautiful and desolate in the seat next to him, and his heart aches for her, because for all Katee’s undeniable charms and attractions, Kerry is his wife, the mother of his children, and in all probability the love of his life. Funny how these truths chose to assert themselves at the most awkward moments.

“No. Not now. Now you fuck off and leave me alone and we can talk about this some other time. Right now I really don’t want to see your cheating arse anywhere near me.”

She’s out of the door before he can reply and slams it so hard the whole car shakes, and then he watches her stride into their house without looking back. He stays there, trapped in his dark cage of steel and leather, both hands gripping the steering wheel with blanched knuckles, and all he can think is _Don’t go, don’t go, please don’t leave me alone_ while his conscience points out that it’s exactly what he deserves.

****************

_January 2009_

Another dram, knocked back swiftly, another hammer blow to the memories that threaten to drown him: the feeling of absolute loss that night Kerry confronted him, and the bleak few weeks that followed; the torture of guilt as he watched her in pain; the self-loathing that pervaded every waking moment; the overarching fear that it couldn’t be fixed and he’d broken his marriage and his family for good.

It took months to rebuild the trust, longer to be able to look at himself in the mirror without disgust, and that was without even taking into account what Katee must have been going through, alone and guilt-ridden and avoiding anywhere Kerry might conceivably turn up. Thankfully Kerry never made it public, and to this day Jamie hopes no one else found out (although he knows women talk). At any rate, there was no scandal. Small mercies.

He pours himself another healthy slug and thinks, again, of all the ways in which he’s been a miserable and inadequate husband, lover, father. He loses count around fourteen, tries to cling on to the fact that he’s a reformed character, and hasn’t looked at another woman since then. Or not with any sense of purpose, and surely that’s what counts, right?

He must have passed out on the kitchen table at some point, because he’s jerked awake by the familiar sound of the key in the front door; pulled out of some disjointed dream in which he’s playing hide and seek with the children in a deserted cityscape, the kind of dream that could turn to nightmare at any moment. His relief at waking only lasts as long as it takes the rest of his brain to catch up, and remind him of the rest of the evening.

Kerry walks slowly through the entrance hall and he hears her pause at the foot of the stairs.

“You all right?” he calls out.

“Jamie? You’re still up?”

She sounds surprised and he looks at the kitchen clock, which indicates it’s past midnight – he must have slept for at least an hour. No wonder his neck is cricked.

As he stretches out his upper back, rolling stiff shoulders, she walks in and stops in the doorway, framed by the light from the hall. Her face softer is than when she left, the edges blurred by alcohol and perhaps tears. He can’t tell; Kerry’s always been good at crying discreetly.

“I’m sorry about the interview,” he blurts out, and she shakes her head.

“Forget it. I overreacted. I was stupid.”

“No, I was. I _am_. I didn’t mean to be such an arse. You know me, I’m a self-centred twat who really ought to know better, and you’re a wonderful, amazing woman and I don’t deserve you at all.” he says in one breath, and he means every word of it.

She sighs, a tired smile ghosting over her features, and she has never looked so beautiful than in this moment, when the fear of losing her still lingers at the back of Jamie’s throat. Perhaps he is more of a masochist than he has ever admitted to himself.

“It’s late,” she says. “Come to bed.”

Something eases inside Jamie – some tension that had been building ever since he walked in hours ago – and he takes a deep breath. He gets up, gathers the cuttings on the table and puts them back in the envelope, and then picks up the article that started all this, crumples it in a ball and drops it into the pedal bin.

It’s a tiny, symbolic gesture, but it works, and Kerry stretches her hand out to him.

“Oh, and, before I forget – sorry to burst your fantasy bubble, but I’d rather have a threesome with Brad Pitt than Angelina Jolie any day,” she teases as they go up the stairs.

*************************************

_Coda – September 2009_

He almost walks straight past Katee in the car park at Universal, thumbing through his messages after a long and not-entirely-fruitful meeting with producers. He’s muttering under his breath, and he only notices her when he pauses to compose an answer and she stops right by him.

“Having a bad day?” she says with a grin, and the sound of her voice, so familiar, shocks him out of his iPhone-induced trance.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he says – because, Christ, she is, even more beautiful than he remembers – and it’s been ages since he last saw her.

“You’re not too shabby yourself, Bamber,” she replies and he hugs her just long enough to realise he’s missed her quite a lot more than he’s allowed himself to believe. She too, if the way her hand lingers on his arm when they separate is anything to go by.

“So what are you doing here?”

“Same as you, I guess – seeing Dick Wolf’s people.”

“How’s it looking for your pilot?”

“Good, I think. Listen, you want to grab a coffee or something? I’d love to catch up.”

“Um, sure. What about some lunch? I’m starving.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” she mocks, looking him up and down, and Jamie punches her lightly on the shoulder. He weighs a good stone more than he did when they were on the show together, but he’s not taking any of that Hollywood shit.

“I live in London, now, okay? Warm beer, pies, and we’re not as shallow as you lot.”

“Shame,” she smirks.

Jamie follows her car through midday LA traffic until they end up in a little Mexican place with a shaded patio and small tables dotted around the potted palms. They order fish tacos – the best, Katee assures him seriously – with chips, salsa and chilled Coronas, extra jalapenos on the side, and it feels like he’s on holiday. Part of him is very aware that it’s been a very long time since they went out like this, alone, just the two of them. The last time was a rushed beer after shooting, when he had to tell her Kerry knew, and he couldn’t _not_ choose his family, and he was so damn sorry. God, she’d been so fucking understanding then, too.

Now it’s as though nothing had happened and they’re just old friends and ex-colleagues. He has to give Katee credit, it’s something she can do brilliantly. It served them well when they were back on set after it all fell apart. That, and Ron’s growing dislike for the Apollo/Starbuck storyline which meant there weren’t many intimate scenes to shoot as the filming went on.

“So, how’s your show going? Have they picked it up for a second season?”

“Well, you know these bastards at ITV butchered our first season and split it in two, so they could postpone that call for a while. Still waiting.”

“They _did_? Is it something about you, Bamber?”

He laughs.

“Yeah, looks like I’m doomed to be on networks that slice up my shows and spread them thin. Having said that, ITV is so fucked at the moment I don’t know if they can afford to commission anything. We had good viewing figures, it’s just…” he trails off with a shrug.

“So are you coming back over here?” she asks, and maybe he’s imagining the hopeful look in her eyes.

“Actually I have a couple of things planned in London – and I’m still under contract until they make up their minds.”

All the way through their conversation there is another – parallel – one going on in Jamie’s head, about whether this constitutes cheating, whether he should tell Kerry about it, and whether Katee actually wants more than lunch; which leads to unbidden and vivid memories of her face when she’s coming, and guilt rising like bile in his throat.

Thankfully the food arrives before he can let himself spiral out of control, and the fish tacos are delicious – spicy and savoury and everything Jamie loves about food. Kerry loves Mexican, he thinks, she’d love this place. Or maybe not, under the circumstances.

At one point, he stretches his leg and brushes past Katee’s ankle, accidentally, and is a little shocked – and not a little aroused – when she interprets it as an invite and presses her foot against his calf. This, without the shadow of a doubt, cannot be allowed to happen.

He moves his leg away abruptly enough for her to notice, and he sees a faint blush creeping up her cheek.

“Hey,” he says, leaning in. “Don’t, please. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to...”

“No, I’m sorry. I’m the one being stupid,” she interrupts, and she necks the rest of her beer, avoiding his gaze.

She puts the empty bottle down by her plate and studies her pale pink nails carefully before raising her head and looking into his eyes.

“I’m just a bit screwed up because things aren’t going well with Scott. It’s part of my very mature coping mechanism. You know, run away, screw something else up.”

Katee smiles a little – half-sad, half-self-deprecating – and Jamie reaches his hand out and takes hers, squeezes it affectionately.

“I’m sorry to hear about that – anything I can do, just tell me.”

It’s provocation, he knows, but it works, because she raises an eyebrow suggestively.

“Anything?” she says, and they both crack up laughing, the tension defused. Jamie’s always admired Katee’s ability to take the piss, no matter what.

When they’ve stopped giggling, she disengages her hand gently and signals to the waiter for the bill.

“Listen, whenever you’re in town, you should get in touch. Just to say hi.”

“I promise I’ll call you.”

They both know that’s about as far as it will go – their shared past, their transgressions, weigh far too heavily in the balance, and Jamie isn’t naïve enough to think Kerry would ever accept Katee back into their circle of friends, or tolerate them seeing each other.

Their friendship’s stretched thin and worn by events and chances are they’ll drift apart over time, which makes him sad. Still – his marriage has survived, toughened by the trial by fire he put it through; his family’s united; his worst fear averted.

_A price worth paying_ , he thinks, as he walks out into the bright LA afternoon sunshine, and he hopes Katee feels the same as he waves her goodbye.

_fin_


End file.
